


just long enough

by Tanacetum



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Fade to Black, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Taakitz Week, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-08 00:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14092938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanacetum/pseuds/Tanacetum
Summary: An AU take on what Taako means to Kravitz, written as five scenes from the Taakitz Week 2018 prompts.





	1. fears not

**Mar 25 Day 1 – Firsts • Kitchen disasters**

 

Kravitz knows this is gonna be a weird one when his first foot touches down on the other side. He’s suspended for a second between the grave-silence of the astral plane, the lull of a billion souls at his back, and a disheveled, lavish parlor with a greasy sheen of necromantic energy slopped over it.

The rift hardens around him with a twang echoed by a ringing bell, goes viscous and sticky. He has to fight to get both feet on the floor before it closes up. A woman shouts and the bell quiets. Kravitz reevaluates from _weird_ to _dangerous_ and manifests his scythe.

“We’re in the kitchen!” someone calls in a high, familiar voice that makes Kravitz freeze.

He picks his way through the debris littering the parlor—dirty dishes, discarded clothes, nests of blankets like people have been sleeping there—and pushes the door open with his scythe.

It’s an abattoir inside. Every surface is covered in oilcloth tarps, but Kravitz can barely see them under the puddled blood. There’s a corpse open on the central table, intestines stretched and spooled on hooks overhead. Another corpse hangs upside-down on a hook over the sink, blood running down into the drain like a waterfall.

There are more corpses wrapped in shrouds and stacked like logs in the corner. This is where the necromantic energy is concentrated; Kravitz can feel eddies of magic like slick ice. Preservation spells. Bottom-tier shit, _barely_ an infraction, but there are just so many. Not one of them raised, though.

He finally turns to the living people in the room. Normally he’d have dealt with them first, but, well. He doesn’t recognize the third—human, middle-aged, pudgy—but he’s not surprised by the bitten-off grins and glinting eyes of the two elves. Taako’s on a stool as far from the corpses as he can get it, booted feet crusted in blood and hooked up over the rungs. Lup’s at the table with the human, scalpel in her hand. She waves.

“What,” he says flatly. The twins snicker. They and their friend are in rubber ponchos and gloves pulled up past their elbows. The human avoids his gaze. The taint of necromancy is heavy on his skin, even worse than the parlor. But the few hooks it has in his soul are shallow. He sweats out his fears, hands trembling with both anxiety and fatigue. Right in front of Kravitz he starts prying the corpse’s liver free.

“That’s some sick shit,” Kravitz says. “What the fuck is wrong with the three of you?” Lup keels over and laughs helplessly into the corpse’s open chest. She’s punch-drunk with exhaustion, her hair a frizzy halo matted with sweat and grease. Neither she nor Taako wear the passage of the years on their skin. They won’t for many decades more. Kravitz isn’t used to people who know him. When even was the last time he talked to a mortal who wasn’t afraid?

Taako hops up from his stool. He shucks off his gloves before gliding over to take Kravitz’s arm. Kravitz lets his scythe vanish. “Let’s have this conversation somewhere not-gross, hun.”

Kravitz lets Taako lead him out to the parlor. Taako throws himself down in the blankets on the sofa, pats the cushion beside him, and kicks a cascade of dirty dishes off the coffee table to put his feet up. Kravitz raises an eyebrow at him.

Taako runs waves of prestidigitation up his arms and across his face.  The tickle makes him sneeze as the grime vanishes from his skin in increments. “C’mon Krav, we ain’t got all day. Haven’t you heard there’s a plague on?”

Kravitz relents and sits down stiffly at Taako’s side. Taako grins and presses against him from knee to shoulder. He barely smells like blood, thank the gods.

Taako looks up at him through his lashes. He’s got days-old eyeshadow on, smeared a deep bruise purple and mirroring the dark bags under his eyes. He’s beautiful. He catches Kravitz’s eye and grins. “You can put your skin on. The vector’s bodily fluids, you’re fine so long as you don’t lick a corpse.”

The crawl of flesh over his bones unnerves Kravitz. He doesn’t do this often. The room dims and softens through the filter of physical eyes. Everything around him, though—the heat rolling off Taako’s body, the velvety crinkle of the cushions beneath them—that intensifies. Kravitz finds that Taako actually smells quite a bit like blood, and like stale sweat and fatigue and greasy food besides.

He also smells like himself. Kravitz has to turn a deep inhale into a discreet cough. “I hadn’t planned on getting as up-close and personal with corpses as you all have been. If this is what medical science is like then I would’ve been happier not knowing.”

“You’re telling me with a straight face that you, the Grim-fuckin’-Reaper, don’t slay corpses on the reg?”

“Zombies aren’t that _juicy_ , Taako.”

Taako cracks up and fists a hand in Kravitz’s vest. Every single one of his knuckles burns like a brand, fizzles like electricity. It is suddenly very, very warm in the parlor.

It’s high summer. Kravitz knew this. He’s been busy in the area for weeks now. Necromantic activity surges after any disaster. Grief, despair, instability—a boiling cauldron of need and regret. He never used to understand why mortals would feel driven by all that to defy the peace of death. Looking at Taako, though—at the banked fear in his eyes, his tongue slipping out to wet cracked lips—he thinks he gets it. His face is mirrored in his sister’s, and they spent their youths clawing for every breath they drew.

They’re different. They’ve grown into their skin. Taako’s fingers aren’t wire-thin anymore, and his eyes are bright even through the fug of exhaustion. His hair’s thick and healthy underneath the grease, pulled up around his head in a burnished crown of braids. Taako’s watching Kravitz’s mouth, so he swallows hard and speaks.

 “Tell me what you’ve found out about the plague. Assuming that _is_ what you’re doing—you’re not just chopping corpses up for fun, right?”

Taako giggles. The tips of his ears flick, and he launches into an explanation about viruses and liver failure that uses words like _cirrhosis_ and _cholestasis_ and _atresia_. He says four times that it’s his sister’s project, her and her _crush_ , and that he wouldn’t dissect a corpse for an entire boatload of gold. But he’s clearly been paying attention. And Kravitz knows Taako would do a lot worse for a lot less.

The twins are so much stronger now. Kravitz thinks it must be hope that has them staying in a dying city, doing their best to help. He’d thought they might be brilliant. Taako talks with his hands and laughs brightly—this plague is one of many tragedies to him, and he’s learned something like happiness despite it. Kravitz isn’t sure how much of that’s because the twins have a solid roof over their heads and the support of the human in the kitchen.  He remembers Taako’s intensity; this vibrancy is a new look for him, and it’s breathtaking.

“I just killed a necromancer,” Kravitz says, when Taako’s story peters out. Taako’s moved his hand down to Kravitz’s thigh. That’s all Kravitz has been thinking about for minutes—he hasn’t learned a damn thing about medicine.

“We the bottom of your list, bubbeleh?”

“The _very_ bottom. What’s Hallwinter’s deal, though?”

“ _Hallwinter?_ Gods, the man has us calling him _Bluejeans_ ,” Taako wheezes. No response from the kitchen. They can’t hear Lup and Barry—not their conversation, not the squelch of offal between their fingers. “He’s some university professor-type givin’ Lup magic lessons. And now _anatomy_ , I guess. But not in the sexy way. She loved his thesis. He’s gone on her, it’s adorable.”

“He’s walking a dangerous line, Taako,” Kravitz says. He’s doing everything he can to ignore the magic permeating Barry’s house. He wants to focus on the rise and fall of Taako’s chest, on the curve of his smile. “I know of zero cases of ‘academic’ necromancy that didn’t end in tragedy.”

“Well of course _you_ don’t,” Taako says, rolling his eyes. “Tragedy’s your whole schtick. Tell me this isn’t the longest you’ve ever just hung out.”

It’s not. It’s the second longest in several centuries, and Taako was there for the first as well. Kravitz doesn’t say that. The scratch of Taako’s chipped nails over the fabric of his suit has become unpleasant, so he captures Taako’s hand in his and squeezes it.

“Whoof, that’s a clammy one!” Taako says in a tone of pure delight. “Oh my gods you’re cold. Hold still.”

Taako steals Kravitz’s hand and presses it to his brow. His face is unbelievably hot. A pang of fear squeezes something in Kravitz’s chest. “You’re not running a fever, are you?”

“No-pe” Taako says, popping the p. “That was our first success—we’ve got a diagnostic spell now. Me ‘n Lup ‘n Barold are all squeaky-clean. You’re gonna be out of work in short order.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kravitz says. He trails fingertips down Taako’s cheek. Taako gives him a wolfish look and presses his face into Kravitz’s.

“Hey,” he says, breath puffing against Kravitz’s lips.

Kravitz pauses. Watches the light filter through Taako’s hair. “…Hey?”

Taako shifts back and levels a look at him. “Kravitz. I am flirting with you. Take a fuckin’ hint.”

The laugh bubbling in Kravitz’s throat catches him by surprise. He doesn’t know how Taako manages to do that to him. He loves it. He pulls Taako down on top of him and they both giggle helplessly, chests heaving against each other. Even after he catches his breath there’s still something moving under his ribs, steady and insistent.

“Can I kiss you?” Taako sing-songs against his neck.  Kravitz has been asked this by him exactly once before, and he’d said no. He’d wondered afterwards for so, so long.

“Yes,” he says this time.

He doesn’t get to lecture Lup and Barry on necromancy. They have more than enough time to clean up and dispel everything. Kravitz spends the evening drinking in the feel of Taako’s lips against his, the scent of his skin and hair. It’s a first for him, and, like all firsts with Taako, he’s left yearning for more.


	2. grief for one removed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grim Reaper crashes a funeral to comfort his boyfriend.

**Mar 26 Day 2 – Modern AU • Hurt/comfort**

 

“Your timing’s shit, Krav,” Taako hisses, and only the distinctive cadence of his voice saves him from taking a scythe to the neck. He _rushed_ the portal. No one’s ever done that who wasn’t a necromancer, and Kravitz’s hackles rise immediately.

Kravitz stops his scythe from forming and moves to catch Taako by the elbows. Instead Taako’s on him in a second, shoving him into a backwards stumble. He sees a chandelier hanging from yellowed ceiling tiles, tables of blue and white flowers, and then Taako slams a door behind them.

They’re in a bathroom. Taako casts something on the door that resonates with a heavy click and makes the mirrors wobble—a locking spell. When he turns to face Kravitz his eyes are red-rimmed.

“Well?” he demands, when Kravitz spends too long staring at him. “Tell me you’re not here for the funeral.”

Kravitz swallows thickly. He’s been wearing flesh out of habit. On missions it’s a liability, a pointless exposure to pain and danger. But with Taako—with Taako’s fingers laced in his, with their legs sliding together—well, it’s _perfect_. He doesn’t want to strip the sense-memory from his bones with his skin. Taako’s worth more than a little pain.

“Am I not invited?” Kravitz says. “I’m not here for work, I promise. Barry’s not in any trouble.”

The look on Taako’s face is venomous. He cuts a severe figure, draped in more black than Kravitz has ever seen on him. He leans on the locked door and crosses his arms. Kravitz steps away to give him space.

“Damn straight Barry wasn’t in any trouble,” Taako says, jabbing a finger at Kravitz. “I know all your rules. He never put a toe out of line!”

 That’s overly generous. To be fair to Taako, Kravitz showed inadmissible leniency whenever Barry _did_ put a toe out of line. But Kravitz won’t speak ill of the dead. He takes another step back so Taako can stomp past him to the counter.

“It was his time, Taako,” Kravitz says. “I’m sorry.”

Grief wrenches Takao’s face. He digs the base of his palm into his eye and scrubs. When he looks up his cheeks are streaked with mascara and the tip of his nose is red. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry,” he says, the edge of a sob in his voice. “Tell it to Lup. She didn’t have enough time, Kravitz. They were just falling in love.”

“I know it’s not fair,” Kravitz says. His throat catches with an emotion he can’t identify. Death defines his existence, has for centuries. The ceaseless march of time, the last slumber of all souls—these things are his home. He’s never mourned a death before. Maybe in another life Kravitz and Barry could’ve been close, but they weren’t even friends. He doesn’t understand why he’s tearing up.

“Don’t you ever—ever think about it?” Taako says. He’s gripping the laminate counter hard enough to chip a nail. He won’t meet Kravitz’s eyes. “I never did. I’m an _elf_. I always knew I’d outlive everyone but Lup.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Kravitz says. He takes a step forward, bends his knees to put himself on eye level with Taako. “Not unless you want me to.”

Taako laughs hollowly. His tears pick up beads of mascara and pool black in his dimples. “I will, though. How do you stand it, knowing that? How is it—how is everyone not just _dust?_ ”

“Can I hold you, Taako?” Kravitz says, extending his arms. “Please?”

The look that crosses Taako’s face is the same one he gives bugs in his kitchen. But it melts away in a second. Taako lets himself look vulnerable in front of exactly two people in existence, and Kravitz feels blessed to be one of them.

Kravitz isn’t wearing mascara, so his tears run clear into Taako’s hair. Taako sobs into his tie for a small eternity. Kravitz whispers into his hair, pours out the love he never thought he’d hold for anyone. Taako’s worth more than a little pain. No matter how much time he and Kravitz have left, no matter how it ends. Kravitz will hold onto every moment they spent together until the world stops spinning.

“They’re gonna remember ‘Professor Bluejeans’ for _centuries_ ,” Taako finally says, after he’s used Kravitz’s pocket square to scrub his face clean at the sink. “Wouldn’t that be something, if his legacy outlived me?”

“His career was incredible,” Kravitz agrees. More than fifty years since that afternoon in the parlor. The world’s a very different place now. Not any kinder, but _different_. Kravitz wonders if society had always moved this quickly and he just hadn’t noticed. Kravitz doesn’t know what the world was like a hundred years ago. He didn’t have a reason to linger here before Taako.

Barry’s made the world better. He committed crimes that should’ve landed him in the stockade, and he saved thousands of lives outside that. Kravitz never knew the Raven Queen’s laws to be malleable until he took them into his hands. Now he gives second chances as a matter of course.

Taako gives his scrubbed-raw face a scrutinizing glare and then draws a glamour over it. He waves a hand and the door clicks open.

“Hope you saved some hugs for my sister,” Taako says with a crooked smile, extending an arm. “Let’s get out there.”


	3. held it truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taako upholds the Raven Queen's laws and saves his husband's butt. Then they go home and make out.

**Mar 27 Day 3 – Roleswap • Fun with magic!**

The cultists overwhelm Kravitz. There were fifteen, not nine, and their spells crash through the room like a tidal wave.  He beheads one—something slices through his jacket, cuts deep into his shoulder—he swings for the next—energy splashes across his face, burns into his nose and blinds him—he catches his scythe in a stomach, _tugs_ until they go down screaming, even as flames burst against him—he lets his flesh curl away, and for a split second he sees the phosphorous trails of the spells that slam into him. Their magic surges into his bones and shakes him apart until all he knows is stifling, choking black.

He flits in and out of consciousness. His awareness never rises above the viscid tide of the necromancy enveloping him. He’s trapped, he can’t move, he can’t even feel whether he has muscles or bones to move with. Again and again he fights for the surface only to sink away in the next instant.

 

Minutes or hours later something _bursts_. The pressure around Kravitz evaporates, washes away in a torrent of scalding power. Heat and light rise—like sunlight, like the hottest days of summer—until they ratchet up and up into a hammering nova too intense for sensation. Then, in the span of a drawn breath, the room goes dim.

And there’s Taako. A vision in lavender robes, lace and heels, pointed hat on his head and charred corpses at his feet. He twirls his wand idly even as he leaps to Kravitz’s side. Kravitz twists and stretches, pushes himself up to sitting. By the time Taako kneels down next to him the hand that Kravitz extends is whole and unbroken.

Taako high-fives him. “What’s up, bones?” he says. Kravitz chases his hand and steals it for himself, presses it into his chest. Taako’s grin is lazy, but there’s a wavering shadow behind it and Kravitz can feel his pulse racing.

“How’d I do?” Taako says. “Ten out of ten? Gonna put you out of work yet, Krav.” He’s trying for glib. His eyes keep darting around though, taking in everything but the cooling piles of meat that used to be cultists. It doesn’t look like just one Sunburst did it. Every surface in the room has signs of magic—bubbling gouges through the sheetrock, wisps of smoke rising from the carpet, furniture somehow stuck in the ceiling.

Taako’s gaze focuses and he grabs Kravitz’s shoulders. That’s how Kravitz realizes that he’s shaking. He and Taako lean heavily on each other and stumble to their feet.

“Let’s get out of here,” Kravitz says. He shrugs off Taako to materialize his scythe, loathing every second they’re apart. Taako slots himself into Kravitz’s side and watches him tear a portal with calculating eyes.

“Reaper express, huh?” Taako says. “We going through the ghost zone? Didn’t know that was an option. Am I allowed there?”

“Everyone ends up there eventually, Taako,” Kravitz says. He was thinking of the cultists around them, souls torn loose and sucked into the astral plane.

Taako laughs and pinches his ass. “That’s morbid as fuck, homie.” He steps with Kravitz through the portal without hesitation and seems disappointed when they transition directly into their home.

They’re in the twins’ workshop, which takes up every inch of their house that isn’t kitchen or bedroom. Taako manages a style despite this—he’s all about elaborate draping fabrics and plush cushions—but almost everything around them is covered in tools and tomes from the mundane to arcane. Kravitz drops into the only open spot on the couch before Taako can steal it.

The twins have come into themselves. Kravitz doesn’t understand exactly what Taako does for a living, just that he has a _lot_ of money. Something about branding and franchises. The wealth doesn’t matter to Taako as much as Kravitz would have thought. He and Lup have power beyond that, would be untouchable even without their gold. They’re among the most powerful wizards to ever exist now. Kravitz had known this, abstractly. He just hadn’t _felt_ it. He wishes he could’ve been conscious to see how Taako took down the cult that defeated the Grim Reaper.

Old age hasn’t slowed Taako down a bit. Or maybe it hasn’t quite hit him. There’s silver in Taako’s hair and lines in his skin, but he’s as canny and deft as ever. Kravitz knows hundreds of mortals now—Taako’s right-hand drow, his staff, the people at all the galas and dinners Kravitz attends as his arm candy. But Taako alone embodies vitality to Kravitz. His will always be the face that comes to mind when Kravitz thinks of the living.

“Remember what you asked me for?” Kravitz says as Taako shuffles cushions around to make more room on the couch. “When we first met?”

Taako throws himself into Kravitz’s lap and kisses him breathless. “That?” he says, eyes sparkling.

Kravitz fights with the layers of Taako’s robe and vest and blouse. He’s determined to get his hands on Taako’s skin. “Not what I was talking about,” he says, yanking at the fabric. “That was nice, though.”

Taako watches his efforts with a smug grin. He bats his eyelashes at the exasperated look on Kravitz’s face and lets him struggle. “Defeated by necromancy and fashion in one day, huh?” Taako says. “If I’d known Death was this lame I might not’ve bothered.”

Kravitz lets his lip wobble and gives Taako his best puppy-dog expression. It’s not a flattering look for him; his face has the wrong structure for it. The tips of Taako’s ears curl with delight. He pulls back enough to do something with his hands and sends his vest and robe flying. Kravitz rucks up Taako’s blouse. He splays icy fingers over Taako’s ribs and chuckles when Taako squeals.

“You’re not out of spell slots, are you love?” Kravitz says, enjoying how Taako squirms in his lap. “You could warm us up.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Taako says. He gets his lips on Kravitz’s neck and blows a messy raspberry. Kravitz laughs and shoves at him weakly. He feels alive under Taako’s hands. It’s exactly what he needs—gentle, probing touches wiping away the memories of pain and confinement.

Taako leers and slides his fingers in between the buttons of Kravitz’s shirt. “Clothes off?” he asks.

Kravitz considers this. “Lup’s not around?”

The second he says her name he realizes. He groans and sinks into the couch. The look Taako gives him has a lot of amusement and just a little guilt. “Damn it Taako, is she back on her necromancy bullshit?”

“Who says she ever stopped?” Taako says. He sits up and crosses his arms sternly. The effect’s ruined by the slide of his thighs over Kravitz’s. “You’re lucky she’d been scoping out those assholes, my man. How else would I have known to pick you up?”

Kravitz closes his eyes and massages the bridge of his nose with three fingers. “Taako,” he says, “are we going to need to talk about this? Am I about to be kicked out?”

“Depends! You gonna try to drag my dear, sweet sister off to ghost jail?” Taako says.

“You can’t just—flout the laws of the natural order, Taako. We’ve had this conversation.”

“ _My_ record’s squeaky-clean. I’m fully aware that _death criminal_ would be a bad look for the Grim Reaper’s husband,” Taako says. He’s smirking when Kravitz squints up at him. “You can’t do shit. And frankly, my man, I don’t think you can take me.”

That sounds like a challenge. A slow grin spreads across Kravitz’s face. He traces Taako’s sides with the pads of his fingers and just a hint of dragging nails. Then he vanishes his entire outfit. “Really Taako?” he says. “You’re sure I can’t _take_ you?”

Taako blushes deeply, ears reddening from root to tip. “Well, _maybe_ ,” he says. He kicks Kravitz’s knees apart, slides his legs between them and melts against his chest. They kiss, unhurriedly at first. Urgency builds as Taako parts Kravitz’s lips and licks into his mouth. Taako rolls off the couch and pulls Kravitz up with him, and they stumble to their bedroom together.


	4. overworn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kravitz goes out with a new friend and spends the evening talking about what Taako means to him.

**Mar 28 Day 4 – Canon divergence • Date night**

 

The venue’s new. It claims to be in the classic style. Doesn’t really look like it, though—the materials are inauthentic, the columns spindle-thin, the walls plain and the ceilings bare. It’s a cheap imitation of the theaters he and Taako frequented back in the day. But Kravitz is here for the company. The architecture matters little to him; he’ll have a good evening despite the nostalgia curling in his gut.

His date’s standing near the entrance with his hands in his suit pockets. Jascha’s a half-elf, a professional violinist with a round face and wide mouth. He reminds Kravitz of Lup, if anything. They became friends much the same way; Kravitz attended an amateur performance with a VIP pass that let him backstage. He went out drinking with some of the members afterwards. Jascha was waiting for them at the bar—he was one of the cellist’s uncles, mentor to half the strings section. He and Kravitz hit it off.  The next week they met up to play around on the violin and talk shop. Kravitz has long since abandoned his dream of conducting, but he’s got a wealth of knowledge that spans centuries. Jascha loves picking his brain.

This is now their sixth or seventh date, counting the concerts Kravitz attended. Kravitz isn’t a big film buff—not like Jascha, not like Taako. He still appreciates a good performance, so he slides his elbow into Jascha’s and leads him to their seats.

The movie’s polished but forgettable. It’s already sliding to the bottom of Kravitz’s brain when he and Jascha are seated at tonight’s restaurant, sedimenting with the dozens of similar stories Kravitz has watched unfold.

They talk and eat. Jascha is maybe a little unnerved by the fanciness of the restaurant Kravitz chose. Kravitz knows how to pronounce dishes like chicken basquaise and tarte tatin—been served them privately by his love, in their kitchen—so he does all the ordering. The food’s okay. Not as good as Taako’s. At least the Bordeaux’s fine.  Kravitz orders a second bottle. He has to carry his own money now and it’s his turn to pay. He watches Jascha’s cheeks redden, deep into his fourth glass.

“What’s bothering you?” Kravitz says, after Jascha misses an opportunity to ask a follow-up question about his favorite concertmaster from antiquity. Kravitz is the only person left walking the earth who’d seen that man perform.

Jascha’s mouth is on the rim of his glass. He takes a deep breath of the wine-scent and puts it down. “I feel like…” he says, searching for the words. “I must be boring to you, Kravitz.”

Kravitz is almost sure he knows what Jascha’s thinking. Even if not, he could easily guess. Very little is ever new to him. But that’s not how you have a conversation. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve had—all these amazing experiences,” Jascha says. The wine’s gone to his head and made him pensive. He’s usually frenetic with energy, too taken with a zest for life and company to fall into contemplation. Kravitz has had conversations like this before, but not with him. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, you’re the _Grim Reaper_. You’ve met important people, the kind of people who got books written about them. What do you get out of spending time with _me?_ I’m sure you’ve seen movies like that before—had better food, better company.”

 Kravitz reaches across the table to put a hand on Jascha’s. Jascha turns his palm over under Kravitz’s and accepts a reassuring squeeze. “Jascha, I’m glad to be here with you,” Kravitz says. “The time we spend together is important to me.”

“Why do you bother, though?” Jascha says. “I’ll be gone in time that—that must be like an eyeblink to you. How do you manage to get attached to anyone, knowing we’re all just going away?”

Part of Kravitz wants Jascha to say _dust_ , _talking dust_. He wants to hear Taako’s words again, even if from someone else’s mouth. He and Taako had so, so many conversations about this, going around and around in circles until they understood each other to the core. Kravitz holds onto every moment they spent together. He can imagine Taako’s voice in perfect detail, always knows what Taako would’ve had to say about something.

Most of the days he and Taako shared together were mundane. Thousands of breakfasts, of afternoons out on the town, of lazy evenings and nights in bed. Among those days are precious, unrepeatable moments that stand out like sparkling gems. A Sunburst, a mansion turned morgue, crossroads on a moonlit night. Kravitz has learned that people—himself included—are shaped by these moments. But he wouldn’t say that the rest of life was drudgery. Taako never did. He let himself exist in every moment, chased thrills and contentment in equal measure. He had a thousand and one reasons to seethe with resentment and found room in his heart to care anyway—for good food and pretty clothes, for his sister, his students, for Kravitz.

Kravitz doesn’t keep a house anymore, but there’s a small pocket of the astral plane with just a few real objects; the violin he bought for Lup, Taako’s wedding dress, his hat and wand, his books, their albums. Taako’s ring hangs on a chain with Kravitz’s, tucked against his beating heart.

He can’t spend all his free time there. Taako has many legacies; the one that matters most to Kravitz is how fully he lived. This is how he remembers. “It’s better to have loved and lost,” he says. “Is something not good or worthwhile just because it ends?”

Jascha wipes away tears. “Choosing to be happy, huh?” he says. “Yeah, I can respect that. But isn’t it frustrating, not being able to hang on?”

“No,” Kravitz says. “No to choosing to be happy—that’s not really how emotions work, unfortunately. But no to the frustration, too. Death’s my whole job. I have to see it as a well-earned rest. Besides, no one’s ever _completely_ gone.”

“So—” Jascha says, brow furrowing, “you’re saying you don’t get attached…? Or that their souls endure, so it’s like you didn’t really lose them?”

A soul is entirely different from a living person in a way that Kravitz doesn’t want to get into tonight. He knows that Taako is still out there, somewhere in the astral sea. With Lup, even—he’s glad she didn’t trample over _every_ law of life and death. Queen help him, he doesn’t think he would’ve been able to lock her in the stockade even then.

The twins persist. They’re not any less gone. Kravitz forces a chuckle and squeezes Jascha’s hand. “No—they become a part of you,” he says, thinking of Lup, studying necromancy centuries after Barry and never once losing herself to it. “Part of the world, too. I told you I was married. How much have I talked about my husband?”

 “You’ve mentioned him,” Jascha says with a watery smile. “Once or twice, maybe.”

Kravitz coughs delicately. “Or three, or four times…?”

Jascha laughs. “What was he like?”

“It’s—likely that you’ve already heard of him.” Kravitz wets his lips. He enjoys this conversation every time he has it. “His name was Taako.”

“Oh my god,” Jascha says, eyes widening. “ _That_ Taako?”

“Were you a fan?” Kravitz teases.

“Not of his shows, I was too young—and I’m no wizard—but I learned to cook because my grandma gave me her copy of his last book when I went off to university. I can’t tell you how many times I fucked up his blueberry crumble.”

Kravitz laughs. He laces his fingers with Jascha’s, points of gentle, anchoring warmth. Jascha’s eyes are kind and bright. Kravitz doesn’t think he’ll fall in love. This evening is still worthwhile. “That’s one of my favorites. I’ll make it for us sometime.”

“I want to hear all about him, Kravitz,” Jascha says. He takes another sip from his wine glass, settles back into his chair. “How did you meet?”

“That’s my favorite story,” Kravitz says. “I’ll never stop telling it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter is the story of how Taako and Kravitz met in this AU! Excited to post it tomorrow, I like how it turned out.


	5. out of dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins summon Death to ask a favor.

**Mar 29 Day 5 – Mythology AU • Meet the family**

 

 

Almost a millennium ago something happened exactly once; never before, never again.

The Grim Reaper was yanked out of the astral plane, ensnared in a circle of feathers, ash, and chalk. The runes were amateurish—traced in shaky hands unused to writing, sparked by feeble magic. He didn’t have to go. But this is an easy way to catch his prey; necromancers who think they can broker deals with Death.

He stands at a crossroads. He’s so far out in the backwaters that it _barely_ counts—the roads to his sides are muddy and pitted, choked by encroaching grass. The signpost rots face-down on the ground. The full moon hangs high overhead, bathing his skeletal form in silver, and the summoners before him clutch wands in tight knuckles.

The elves look nothing like proper necromancers. They don’t even have cloaks to conceal their youth. They’re in worn cotton blouses that fold and hang so much their frames look even thinner. They’re frail, travel-bitten, dust streaked in their hair and caked beneath their nails. This is far from the first time he’s been summoned by children, sadly enough. Death gets blamed for the harsh injustices of life. He looks around for who drove them to this—cultist mentors waiting at a safe distance, the corpse of a parent on the ground.

There’s no one. These children are alone. They’re not dying, not just yet, though their bodies are riddled with fatigue from long years of hunger and hardship.

“What do you want?” Kravitz asks. The girl tips her chin and looks him over challengingly, like she’s assessing an opponent. The boy shies into her side and glares from under heavy lids. Their faces and masked fear are identical.

“A favor from Death,” the girl says. “We summoned you to bargain.” She bites off each word carefully, like she’s read them from a book. Kravitz has got to find the fools who write these things.

“What kind of favor?” he asks. He doesn’t care enough to be intrigued, but he has to admit—this could be new, when so very little is.

“ _Your_ favor,” the boy says. He plasters a shallow smile over his face. “Hail and well met! I’m Taako, and this is Lup.”

“Kravitz,” he says dryly. “Charmed. Tell me, what do you imagine Death’s favor looks like?”

“Like not dying,” Lup says. “Like not feeling like you’re gonna die so often.”

Kravitz stiffens. Taako presses on. “You’re not fair, homie,” he says. “We get it, that’s fine. But we want you to be not fair in our _favor_. Or at least my sister’s, please.”

“Taako!” Lup hisses, elbowing him in the side. “C’mon, bro!”

“You shouldn’t seek to flout the laws of life and death, kids,” Kravitz says, cutting off their scuffling. “The best thing souls can hope for is peace, and a well-deserved rest.” This is turning into a consultation. Kravitz is faintly relieved. There’s no chance he’ll have to reap these kids tonight, and if he handles this carefully he’ll never see them again.

“Yeah whatever,” Taako says flippantly, tossing his head. “Life’s pain and all, we get it. We know from _pain_. But we’re stuck out here in Nowheresville, Bumfuckistan—we don’t got a caravan, we barely got shoes.”

“Our odds could be better,” Lup says. She seizes her brother’s hand, stifles a tremor against him. “That’s what I wanna bargain for.”

Kravitz watches incredulously as she bends down and picks up a violin and bow. The thing has four mismatched strings, years of scuffs and dents. One of the tuning pegs is cracked, the chinrest shines with wear. He knows which story the twins have heard now. Once upon a time he told a bereft widow he liked music. His reputation centers on games and wagers, but, remarkably, that conversation is now part of his myth. They hadn’t even exchanged names.

“Smart of you to not try and cheat me,” Kravitz says. “Cheating Death is how idiots land in the Eternal Stockade.”

“The what?” Lup says, lowering her arms. “Is that _ghost jail?_ ”

“Yes, and you should be afraid of that end,” Kravitz says. The twins crack up.

“Ghost jail,” Taako wheezes. “How do you even manacle a spirit?”

“No food for three days!” Lup says, pitching her voice low. “Not for you vagrants—oh whoops you’re _ghosts_ , guess you don’t need to eat anyway, my bad!”

Kravitz is a little afraid of what’s implied by their words—what have they _seen?_ “That’s morbid as fuck, kids.” They laugh again. He’s never—he hasn’t seen so much laughter in centuries. His forays into the world are usually short and violent. He doesn’t allow himself conversation with anyone but his eternal Queen.

“Stop calling us kids!” Taako says. “We’re grown.”

Yeah, _barely_. Kravitz inclines his head. “How old are you, then?”

Taako says ninety at the same time Lup says eighty. Kravitz calls bullshit on them both and Lup takes up her violin again.

She strikes a chord across the strings. Kravitz winces preemptively and is surprised when the notes ring clear. She notices his flinch, raises an eyebrow. “You can use my violin too,” she says. “If I outplay you, you gotta ignore us when we’re hungry.”

“Or sick, or cold,” Taako puts in.

“People don’t die of cold, Taako!”

“Yes, they do,” Kravitz says. “Not here, but further north.”

Lup pulls a face. “That’s awful,” she says. “We’re never going north.”

“Amen to that,” Taako says. “My sister’s gonna kick your ass, Bone-Boy.”

Kravitz wants to smile. “I don’t need your violin, Lup,” he says. He should still have the trick of manifesting things other than his scythe. He pulls a memory out of the air—the image of spruce and maple, horsehair and catgut, all long since rotted away. He turns the instrument black like his queen on a whim and it solidifies in his hands.

It doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t have skin; he can’t play like this. He concentrates.

Lup’s eyes go wide as dark flesh crawls over his bones, Taako’s wider still. Kravitz’s robe drapes and folds into a linen suit, ropes of hair settle against his shoulders. He remembers how handsome the face he uses to look at the twins is, no matter how seldom he wears it. He’s not sure he quite _appreciates_ it, that he can look human still. He’s assumed he’ll lose the ability in time. The thought barely rankles.

Lup looks back from Kravitz to Taako, unimpressed. Taako’s mouth is hanging open. “Yeah he’s _cute_ , huh?” she says.

He chokes off a shriek and shoves her. “Shut up and fiddle for our souls, sister dear!”

Kravitz draws across the strings first and sends notes high and wavering into the air. He and Lup warm up together, strike up harmonies like starlight. Lup’s very clearly self-taught. Kravitz is rusty. She can’t match him but he wants her to, so he guides her, spurs her, strings out half-remembered songs and leaves openings for her to dance in.

In short order her hands are on his violin and Taako’s flopped on the grass, chin propped up and watching with interest. Kravitz shows Lup what it’s like to play with an unbroken instrument, teaches her how much clearer and sweeter new strings sound.  He positions her shoulders, her elbows, thickens the chinrest to cushion her bony jaw.

It’s the most fun he’s had in centuries. Taako claps, the night lengthens. Kravitz teaches Lup everything he can and gets to hear ancient melodies from fingers other than his.

The sky lightens hours later, though the moon’s up yet. Taako dozed for a while. Now he gets up with a stretch and Lup takes his place in the grass. She pulls her knees up to her chest and yawns. She needs sleep, doesn’t want to. The twins look at him expectantly. Their eyes glint above bitten-off grins.

“You did great,” Kravitz says to her. “I want you to make it. Both of you.”

Lup curls up around her violin, closes her eyes and breathes deeply. Taako smooths her hair and rises. He walks right up to Kravitz, stands inches from him. There’s no fear left on his face. The crown of his head comes up to Kravitz’s nose.  He’s rangy, stretched out; the tips of his ears are flaking, his hair’s thin and brittle, and all of his nails are chipped. He smells like woodsmoke and cooking oil.

Kravitz thinks he sees something in the twins. Some promise that he would—that he would loathe to see cut short. They’re too young for the dust they wear, for how worn they are. They deserve a chance to grow. He hopes he never sees them again. He hopes he does.

Lup snickers on the ground. Taako flips her off. Then he turns to Kravitz, tongue poking out between his teeth.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks. Kravitz balks. Lup gives up the pretense of sleep to giggle helplessly.

“Smooth, bro!” she says. Taako’s ears go red from roots to tips.

“You’re—ah, no. Sorry.” Kravitz says. This is not a conversation he has ever had. Kravitz usually disdains his summoners, often kills them. The twins breached the realm of death and tried to take advantage of dangerous forces. All they got out of it was a night of music and company. The best night he remembers.

Kravitz finds he doesn’t mind the broken rules. He finds that he’s glad the twins summoned him, wouldn’t change it for anything. “I had a lovely evening but I’m not—I’m not going to take advantage.”

“I’m like, the human equivalent of eighteen,” Taako says. Maybe hunger has stunted him, but Kravitz suspects he’s talking himself up.

“Kravitz is the human equivalent of _super_ dead, Koko,” Lup snickers. “We saw his _whole_ _entire skull_.”

“Ughhhh, fine!” Taako says. He rolls his eyes and flops down against Lup, flicks a dismissive hand at Kravitz. Embarrassment tips his ears down and shades his eyes. “We mortals gotta sleep now. We need to get to walking ASAP. Places to be, things to do.”

Kravitz summons his scythe, tears a portal. Lingers. Everything around him is cast in a deep, comforting blue. Birdsong rises from the forest; the wind is a gentle caress. He doesn’t usually notice these things. As a reaper he doesn’t need skin, has forgotten what it feels like. He suspects he’s forgotten what a lot of things feel like—things that were important to him, and could be again.

Taako arranges his sister and leans against her back with crossed legs. His embarrassment softens when she snuggles into him.

“Goodbye,” Kravitz says. “Taako. Lup.”

Lup waves. Taako smiles. “See you later, Krav.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thank you to everyone who left comments. The screaming on chapter 4 surprised and delighted me. I promise I had Emotions about this story as well, though I'd call it happy overall. Bittersweet, maybe.
> 
> The quote at the top is from [ distractedkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/distractedKat). She's an amazingly talented writer and my beloved advance reader. I know I'm on to a mood when I can get under her skin.
> 
> Happy Taakitz week. =)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Alfred, Lord Tennyson and his insanely long requiem 'In Memoriam' for my chapter titles. I will never have time to read it in full.


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